


Sounds Like...

by T Verano (t_verano)



Category: The Sentinel (TV)
Genre: Community: sentinel_thurs, M/M, Senses, Sentinel Thursday
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-25
Updated: 2010-03-25
Packaged: 2020-03-14 14:36:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18950104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/t_verano/pseuds/T%20Verano
Summary: A brief excursion into what one particular sentinel hears.





	Sounds Like...

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Sentinel Thursday challenge #332 Senses:hearing

Anybody else would be embarrassed if they knew what their body really sounded like. Gurgles, wheezes, creaks, silent farts that aren't really all that silent. (Not that you need to hear a fart in order to identify it. Ever.) 

But not Sandburg; he wouldn't be embarrassed to hear any of it. He'd be all over every little sound with the auditory equivalent of a tape measure and a microscope, a scale; probably throw in some Freudian analysis and a few tribal legends to boot. He wouldn't care if it was his body or somebody else's providing the research site — he's got zeal, not self-consciousness.

So I don't tell him. Don't tell him, either, that he makes an unnerving sound — hell if I can describe it — just before he comes, a sound that your average Rotary Club would be thrilled to have on tape to pipe into one of their fund-raising Halloween Haunted Houses: combine a stuck pig with a hyperventilating ghost and you come close to it. Of course, I'm the only lucky Joe who gets to hear that particular sound; all the average Rotarian would be able to pick up at those moments of truth would be a series of breathy, ordinary, stuttering moans, not a sound effect Vincent Price could've been proud of.

Sandburg wouldn't be self-conscious about that, either. Maybe he'd be a little embarrassed the first time we fucked after I told him, but he wouldn't let a little thing like the fact that during sex he cuts loose with something that's first cousin to a squeal really slow him down, not for long. He likes sex too much and research too much. And out would come one of those damn notebooks — and probably a stopwatch and a Bunsen burner, for all I know — and _I_ like sex too much, with him and without notebooks or stopwatches or gas-burning laboratory equipment, and so I don't tell him. Won't ever tell him.

There's one other thing I don't tell him that I hear. Not entirely out of self-interest, this time — I don't think he's ready to know it yet, to know that I'm hearing it, maybe not even ready to know that he's saying it. But one of these days I may just embarrass the fuck out of both us and tell him anyway.

Tell him I hear how he feels about me. 

Because I do. I hear it all the time, in his voice, in words that have nothing to do with what he's really saying, underneath; in silences that echo in my ears with all those unspoken feelings.

I hear it. 

Beats the crap out of Blair's Casper the Pig impersonation.

Even if I have to admit I've grown kind of fond of that squeal. After all, I'm the only lucky Joe who gets to hear it.


End file.
